downturned, when one of them chanced to note the frail,
pathetic little figure of a woman resting upon one of the seats.

It was Jean Ansell. Worn and weary after hours of aimless wandering, she
had entered those gardens so beloved of Parisian _bonnes_ and children,
and sunk down upon that seat just within the high railings skirting the
busy Rue de Rivoli, and had then burst into bitter tears. Her young
heart was broken.

Within sound of the hum of the never-ceasing motor traffic, up and down
that fine, straight street of colonnades to the great Place de la
Concorde, where the fountains were playing, the stream of everyday life
of the Gay City had passed her by. None cared--none, indeed, heed a
woman's tears.

Men glanced at her and shrugged their shoulders, and the women who went
by only grinned. Her troubles were no concern of theirs. Hatless, with
only an old black shawl about her, and with her apron still on, she
found herself hungry, homeless, and abandoned. Moreover, she was the
wedded wife of a dangerous criminal!

Those who passed her by little dreamed of the strange tragedy that was
hers, of the incidents of the past night, of the burglary, the betrayal,
the arrest, the flight, and the crowning tragedy. Indeed, she herself
sat in ignorance of what had happened to the pair after they had left
the house.

She was only wondering whether Ralph had found her note, and whether on
reading it, he had experienced any pang of regret.

She was only an encumbrance. He had bluntly told her so.

And as she again burst into tears, for the twentieth time in the
half-hour she had rested upon that seat, the two grave-faced sisters
noticed her. Then, after discussing her at a distance, they ventured to
approach.

She was sitting in blank despair, her elbow upon the arm of the seat,
her head bent, her hand upon her brow, her whole frame convulsed by
sobs.

"Sister, you are in trouble," exclaimed the elder of the two thin-faced,
ascetic-looking women, addressing her as she placed a hand tenderly upon
her shoulder. "Can we be of any assistance?"

Poor Jean looked up startled, dazed for the moment. She was amazed at
sight of them. Ah, only those who have been adrift in Paris--the bright,
laughter-loving, gay city of world-wide fame--know how hard, cruel, and
unsympathetic Paris is, how the dazzling shops, the well-dressed crowds,
the brilliantly-lit boulevards, the merry _cafes_, and the clattering
restaurants all combin